


to the snakes and the people they bite

by nspx



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Other, and (maybe) why they didn't fight, and a war that made these children think, anyway, hp meta, maybe if you squint it is, or how they fought their whole lives and no one noticed it, this is a story about slytherins and growing up in a pureblood society, this is not a love story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-07 11:32:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7713385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nspx/pseuds/nspx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels like relief and a sort of damnation, looking at all of your old friends and relatives and high society acquaintances. You can almost see your future; a job in the ministry, a manor in the country, a perfect spouse and two children – one, if your first born is a boy. A family’s name is sacred, after all.</p>
<p>(A story about a Slytherin, family, pride – a story about realizing you are on the wrong side of a war you've been fighting your whole life.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO. I have been sitting on this for ages. In the past year I've been battling with a writers block so brutal I thought I'd never, ever write again. Ugh. Anyway.
> 
> The title is from the song Twin Size Mattress from The Front Bottoms, a band that I really love. 
> 
> Reviews are like a bandage to my beaten, battered writer heart. You can talk to me about this fic on tumblr (nspx)!

You’re eleven years old and sitting on a big red train and you’ve known where you belong since the start.

It’s a big day, _your_ day, but you know it really isn’t about you at all. Your mother puts on her finest earrings – a family heirloom, of course, gold and emerald from Victorian England. Grandmother likes to brag about them to her friends, saying _her_ mother got them as a gift from the Minister himself. He was a good man, but he’s dead now; he was murdered by _Muggles_ , slaughtered like an animal, Mother told you, and you’ve been afraid of them since.

Your father wears his finest robes, silver embroidery sewed into soft green fabric and you, you’re dressed in latest wizarding street style collection or maybe couture, made specifically for you; you don’t remember. Platform 9 ¾ is an elite gathering this time of year (“At least it _should_ be,” your father says, eyeing the very obviously Muggle couple fussing over their daughter, robes that don’t belong wrapped tight around her shoulders) and you must present yourself in the best possible light. 

You’ve nothing to worry about, you know that, you’ve been born and raised a snake and your parents’ expectations will be met and you’ll make friends with everyone important, you promise, but – your nerves are skyrocketing, still.

You’ve never been away from home for longer than a month, save the time you stayed with a cousin in Italy, but even then you were wrapped in the safe confines of family, surrounded by people that were just like you. Clean-cut, Pureblood, sharp; nobody questioned your beliefs and nobody challenged them and that’s exactly how you like it.

1st of September isn’t as gloomy as it usually is, pale sunlight catching in your mother’s earrings and reflecting onto the dark fabric of her robe. She waves at you with a dry handkerchief in her hand, expressionless. Your father gives you a stiff nod; you search for some sort of affection in his expression, maybe an ‘ _I’ll miss you’_. This isn’t how you imagined leaving is at all, but all of your friends’ parents look this way. 

Only Narcissa Malfoy is crying, delicate hands pressed to her mouth, eyes red and puffy – her love for her son is an ongoing joke in the community, but nobody dares say it to her face. You’re a bit jealous, or you were, once, but not anymore; jealousy doesn’t become you. It’s been a long time since you first heard: _‘If you want something, take it.’_

There is a plump redheaded woman waving so vehemently her wrist might give out and you know who she is, because everyone does – she’s a _blood traitor_ but, looking at her, you cannot help but think her hugs must be exquisitely warm. You’re not jealous. No, you pity her. Your father told you all about her lot.

(“She should be embarrassed,” your mother tells you, her delicate nose so high in the air the fine wrinkles on her neck smooth out. “How she let herself go, my Merlin – I wouldn’t ever go out the house again.”)

You’re on the train now and there’s no going back; you find your friends. You’ve known all of them since birth, played with them on the fine English lawn in front of your bigbig white marble mansion. You sit down in the Slytherin section of the train – you’re not Sorted yet, but nobody asks why you’re here; they know. They know you and they know that not just anyone dares to sit here. You’re either proud to be green or you’re eaten alive – everyone knows that.

Huddled over Witch Weekly, pretending you weren’t sitting like this in your bedroom two days ago, that you aren’t sick of each other, you catch up with your friends.

One of you says he can’t wait to see the common room in person.

You agree. You say your cousin told you sometimes the giant squid swims by. You have a lot of Slytherin cousins and all of them are somebody now, so you don’t talk much anymore. You don’t miss them, because you don’t miss anyone.

_The giant squid?_ your friend gasps. You nod like you can’t believe it either, but you’ve had this conversation before. You lean back in your seat and pretend you’re thinking about the squid and you hate it for a moment, this meaningless existence of yours. Dull repetitions and forced smiles and hierarchy and one day, when you have a gaggle of pale children of your own, they’ll have this life, too, and you think you don’t want that.

You wonder what would happen if you didn’t end up in Slytherin. You wonder if your father _would_ ever disown you.

You think about these things, but you don’t want to ever find out.

(“Poor Walburga,” your grandfather says over dinner one day. He talks about the Black family a lot, but you don’t ask why. “What became of her son, that Sirius boy…”

“It doesn’t matter, darling,” grandmother cuts off. She doesn’t Walburga very much, so Mother doesn’t either. Dreadful woman, she always says to Grandmother. Can you believe her failure?

“The disgrace of it all,” grandfather continues, shaking his head. “Imagine –“

“They’re not _ours_ to worry about, are they? Or have you been thinking about having another affair? She’s dead, dear. Show some respect.”

Grandmother clicks her tongue and smiles, slow, venomous; almost like she’s challenging him. She ends all conversations like this.

There is an uncomfortable silence.

“Orion was my third cousin, you know,” grandfather murmurs vaguely, bringing his glass of wine to his lips.

“I know, love,” grandmother says, devoid of all affection. There’s a distasteful eye roll somewhere in her expression; she looks around, doesn’t bat an eye. “More soup?”)

You’re on this train and you wish you could go home, but you can’t. You’ve already eaten all the candy it was acceptable for you to eat, talked about all the things your mother _didn’t_ yell at you for, snickered at Draco’s hair and put on your school robes, but it got boring after a while. You can’t really imagine Draco with hair that’s different and there’s really nothing to laugh at anymore, there never really was, therefore you settle into a silence you try your damnest not to find uncomfortable.

You’re about to say something, but the door opens.

“Has anyone seen a toad? Neville’s lost one.”

This girl, this girl who barges into your compartment and breaks your silence, she isn’t very pretty, bushy haired and big-toothed, and she’s got a grating sort of bossy voice that makes you want to slam the door in her face.

“Who’re you?” one of you snaps. You’ve a knit-tight community and no patience for newcomers, no room for them either, because there is hierarchy and everyone, everyone that matters anyway, knows their place in it. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m Hermione Granger and I’m here to find Neville Longbottom’s toad –“

“Neville Longbottom?” you snort. You have a sharp tongue, all of your friends do, and a girl like Hermione Granger doesn’t look like she belongs here. “His family’s a lot of blood traitors. What does that make you, then? Granger…”

You think for a moment, but don’t remember. “Never heard of it.”

She swallows.

_Interesting…_ Your eyes harden and your back straightens and you say exactly what they expect you to: “You’re a _Mudblood_ then?”

“I don’t know what that – none of my family are magical…”

“A Mudblood!” Daphne Greengrass gasps, her face contorting in disgust. “Get out! Get _out_! Get out, you dirty Mudblood!”

Granger’s eyes are wide saucers and her mouth is slightly parted, front teeth biting into her lower lip like she’s trying very hard not to cry. She clenches small fists at her side and says: “But Neville’s –“

“ _Just leave_!”

You slam the door in her face, your fingers shaking and your heart beating hard, and shut the blinds close.

She’s gone now, on the other side of the train if she’s smart, and there’s that silence again.

“Can you believe it?” Daphne’s the first one to say, shoulder-length raven hair flickering and curling at her chin. She’s the loud one, the one looking for glory and recognition; you won’t ever be enough for her. You’re not a Malfoy or Parkinson or Zabini – none of you are. Your father is important, but you’ve known from a young age that he’s not important enough, and Daphne always wants what she can’t have. “A Mudblood – did you _see_ how she looked at us? She ruined my day!”

“I’m glad you were there to save us,” they tell you, clap you on the back and ruffle your hair. “My _hero_ , honestly. Brave enough to be a Gryffindor!”

You laugh out loud, you all do, because the lot of you are the farthest from Gryffindor anyone could ever be; Gryffindors are brave and courageous and chivalrous and you’re none of these things, but you don’t have to be.

You _did_ see the way she looked at you, Mudblood Granger with the bushy hair, wounded and offended and a bit terrified, and when you’re lying in your green four-poster bed, green walls and green everything, you remember the way her skin was a bit green, too, like she wanted to throw up.

(You’re eleven years old and sorted into the house of the rich, the cunning, the great.

You’re sitting with your shoulders pulled back, nose in the air. You’re proud, because this is _it_. This is where you belong. This is where you’ll make your parents proud.

McGonagall looks at you like she knows you, like she’s seen a million yous a million times – and she has, hasn’t she? She taught both of your parents and all of your friends’ parents and their parents before them.

The hat lands on your head, ruffles perfectly combed hair, but doesn’t say a word.

_‘SLYTHERIN!’_

It feels like relief and a sort of damnation, looking at all of your old friends and relatives and high society acquaintances. You can almost see your future; a job in the ministry, a manor in the country, a perfect spouse and two children – one, if your first born is a boy. A family’s name is sacred, after all.

You wonder, in the privacy of your own thoughts, could you have been different? Could life have been different?)


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She smiles, all venom and grace, and you understand what she’s saying is bigger than you, bigger than any of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Short. Like, sorry about it.

You’re twelve years old and in the same year as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived or Killed or Conquered or – whatever it is he did.

You expect him to be shinier, grander greater incredible, but he isn’t. He’s not particularly hero-looking at all – he’s scrawny and looks breakable and his hair’s always a mess, which you think is fitting given who he socializes with. He’s a bit daft, really, quiet and looking off into empty space a lot. Some of the girls in your year it find adorable; Hufflepuffs, obviously. You don’t get the appeal. Even Draco can’t seem to shut up about him, _sodden Seeker Potter who can’t even catch a Snitch properly, useless Muggle lover_ , and your mother sends you inquiring letters and all you can tell her is that he won the house cup for Gryffindor last year.

Not just him, you correct – two blood traitors and one Mudblood helped him do it. She sends back a letter saying to stay away from him, please, darling, don’t get your father in any trouble. We don’t want to be associated with people like him.

(You think that you remember hearing a story once about how Harry Potter was a great Dark wizard, greater than the Dark Lord himself, and now you can’t help but think Mother sounded disappointed in her letters.)

You’re second year and already know the ins and outs of the castle, but you also know that the other Houses don’t like you. You come to the common room drenched in slime the Weasley twins threw at you while the whole school laughed and the Head Boy gets the kind of look in his eye that makes you think he could commit murder, a cold trickle down your spine when he grits his teeth.

(Years later, he’s got that same murder in his eyes and a wand in his hand and he’s shouting _Avada Kedavra_! mindlessly at everyone passing by, but you’re not there to see it.)

You learned a lot in school, but the most important lesson wasn’t taught in class.

Your cousin, a sixth year girl with sharp features and raven black hair, sits you down once after Peeves corners you and some of your friends in a corridor and pushes furniture into you, and says: “You know what the whole point of Slytherin really is?”

You think for a second, unsure, but you’ve never backed down from an intellectual question. “Ambition. Greatness.”

She grins, gap in between her teeth showing, like you proved her right and she won a game you didn’t know you were playing. “Yeah. That’s what I thought, too.”

She folds her legs under her body and says: “You’re not wrong, y’know. You’re not entirely right, either, but who is at twelve?”

She giggles, a light, teasing sound.

“Slytherin, you see… It’s all about protection.”

“What’d you mean?” you ask, confused. Slytherins are strong and resourceful, and don’t need protecting.

“This school,” she looks up at the ceiling and waves her hand around vaguely. “This place isn’t a friendly place for us, is it? Not since Mudbloods and half breeds are allowed in.”

“And blood traitors,” you add, thinking of the Weasel, Potter and Granger huddled together over dinner, laughing.

(You don’t laugh much, never have.)

“Yeah,” she says, nodding, and you feel like you gained a big of her respect. “There’s a reason everyone in this house is the same, isn’t there? There’s a reason we’re all like this. Slytherin was a smart man, you see. He understood what Ravenclaw and Gryffindor and Hufflepuff didn’t; he understood the value of purity. At the end of the day, it all comes down to self-preservation, doesn’t it?”

She looks deep in thought. “People misunderstand the term self-preservation a lot of the time. They think we’re selfish. That we don’t care, but that’s not true. We care about ourselves and our lot. That’s not bad at all, if you ask me. We’ll take care of Peeves. But think of this, this green slime they drenched you in, as _honour_. They want to be like you, darling, so they’re afraid of you.”

You nod.

“One day,” she says softly. “One day we won’t have to hide anymore. We won’t have to be second or third or anything else – things are looking up for us, you see. It’s a good thing you’re on the right team, lovely. Don’t you worry.”

She smiles, all venom and grace, and you understand what she’s saying is bigger than you, bigger than any of you.

“Now, go clean up. It’s improper of anyone of your status to look this unkempt, don’t you agree?”


End file.
